Between the Cracks
by Aurilia
Summary: Nothing's normal for the Winchesters. Apparently, not even the afterlife. Rated M for language, not slash, post-S3 finale, anti-deathfic if that makes sense, total crack.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural', including, but not limited to, the CW network and Eric Kripke. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This is pure crackfic. Something my over-tired brain threw at me when I should have been sleeping. I wrote it in one go, no beta, so any mistakes are wholly mine.

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**Between the Cracks**

It wasn't Hell. It was limbo. A waiting area. Dean didn't find this out until his voice had screamed itself raw and the hooks, cold as they were, numbed him to the point he could hardly feel them anymore. Between one blink and the next, between one hoarse, whispered, "Sammy," and the next, Dean's surroundings shifted around him. He had no real clue how long he'd been hanging there, but now that he wasn't, he was grateful.

Of course, he was still under the impression he was actually in Hell. The room in which he had appeared, or had appeared around him, or whatever, had plain gray walls, plain gray floors, and a plain, gray ceiling. In all honesty, it reminded him of that one hotel, halfway across Arizona and about four years prior that was uniformly and entirely beige. There was a single chair. Dean took one look at it and decided to remain standing, despite the growing pain from the wounds of hounds and hooks. It was one of those plastic monstrosities that one only ever encountered at free clinics in seedy neighborhoods run by sadists.

As had been the case with the hooks, Dean had no idea how long he was in that room. He did know that it wasn't quite as long as the hooks, but couldn't confirm that supposition. He spent his time ignoring the pain and pacing.

Eventually, the room shifted dizzyingly once again, and he found himself in a lavishly appointed office, decorated in dark woods and leather and bronze and glass. It smelled of tobacco smoke – not cheap cigarettes, but the high-quality stuff, pipe-tobacco or maybe cigars – and booze that cost more per ounce than Dean would spend in an entire night of binging in New Orleans. Leather oil and wood soap and under it all, the faint taint of sulfur and ozone. If Dean hadn't been completely sure of the fact – never mind that it wasn't actually, technically true until that moment – the office would have convinced him that he was, indeed, in Hell.

After the monotony of the previous two environments, the décor of the office temporarily short-circuited his senses. That was all Dean could think of by means of an explanation as to why he'd missed noticing the chubby dude in the white leisure suit sitting at the desk. The man lit a cigar and kicked back in his chair, running his eyes over Dean in a way that made Dean, quite frankly, highly uncomfortable. "So…" the Chub said, lingering a little too long on the vowel. "Dean Winchester."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and quirked an eyebrow.

Chubby-boy laughed, a grating, horrible sound that set Dean's teeth on edge. "Not much for talking, are you? Have to say, I'm a bit disappointed. All the reports told me how you tend to spout off at the mouth."

Dean shrugged, wincing a little as the wound in his shoulder flared briefly. He wondered in passing just why his wounds didn't hurt more, but then pushed the thought from his mind. "There's nothing left to say," his much-abused voice croaked.

"On that, I would have to agree," the man – demon – hellspawn – whatever – laughed again. "However, there seems to be a bit of a problem with your contract, sonny. Looks like you sold yourself to bring your brother back, right?" Dean nodded. The fat man tutted, "It seems you just can't get good help these days. This seems to be happening more and more – ever since Lilith's latest batch of newbies signed on. I have to wonder if Lilith did more than just hand them the rulebook – nobody ever reads the damn thing." He snubbed his cigar in an ashtray that appeared to be made of bone. Yet another thing Dean didn't want to think too deeply about.

The man sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper-tending-to-gone hair. "Thing is, Dean-o, you selling yourself for your brother? Yeah, that's considered a selfless act down here. More than that, it's an act of self-sacrifice, which, according to our bylaws, means that you don't belong here."

That didn't make much sense to Dean. His confusion showed on his face.

The demonic tub'o'lard with good taste in booze – if the scent was anything to go by – explained further, "A selfless act means you don't belong here. So, off you go, sonny. I'm a rather busy being, you know."

"But – how do I – I mean –" Yeah, Dean was pretty sure something in his head was fucked. More than normal, even.

The man gestured negligently behind Dean, towards a smoky glass door. "Talk with my secretary. She can iron out the details."

Dean stepped towards the door, more than just a little convinced he was hallucinating. That the hooks and solitude had finally driven him insane.

The door opened with ease and he saw a surprisingly pert and cheerful blonde wearing clothing that would have shamed most prostitutes lounging at a smaller, less ornate desk, reading a glossy magazine. _Hell Quarterly_. Dean repressed the urge to snort. The crossroads bitch hadn't been lying when she said she got the newsletter. She looked up at Dean and it was a split-second before her eyes filled in from the bottomless black to a middling shade of brown. "Ah, Dean Winchester! I've already gotten everything taken care of, so," she reached into a side-drawer and removed a small, silver coin, "if you just take this, you'll end up where you need to be."

He reached out his hand, "Um… Thank–" There was a blinding white flash, "–s, I guess… What the beep?" Though Dean was positive he'd actually said 'fuck', what actually emerged from his mouth was that annoying monotone beep which television and radio talk-shows used to edit foul language. He tried again, "Beep the beeping beepers. What the beep?" Perplexed as he was concerning his inability to curse, it didn't dawn on him that, despite where he'd been mere moments earlier, he was now standing in front of an extraordinarily old dude in a cheap brown twill suit. Old Dude was standing behind a low podium on which rested the most gi-fucking-normous book Dean had ever seen. Old Dude was also frowning at him. "What?" Dean ground out.

"Foul language has no place in heaven, Mister…?"

"Heaven, huh?" Dean took a closer look at his surroundings and couldn't say he was all that impressed. Sure, there was a lot of gold, and what appeared to be an overabundance of libraries, and a helluva lot of smiling, happy folk, but he just couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Besides, that beeping shit was gonna get old _real_ fast.

"Your _name_, boy," Old Dude sounded angry, but in a kind of feeble 'aw, shucks, you got the last cookie' kind of way.

"Dean Winchester," he replied. While the Old Dude looked through his book, Dean realized that his wounds from the hooks and the hounds were gone.

"Ah, here you are." Old Dude frowned and looked up. "It appears, Mr. Winchester, that there has been some sort of mistake."

"Really? What this time?"

"You have several black marks on your record – far too many to allow you in, I'm afraid. There's innumerable counts of Wrath, Greed, Envy, Gluttony, Pride, Sloth, and Lust. All _seven_. My word, Mr. Winchester." Dean had the unerring feeling he was standing in Principal Bryant's office in tenth grade while the man totaled up all the demerits, detentions, and suspensions he'd had in his permanent record. "If it were just or two… Well, we could forgive those. But all _seven_? I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," Old Dude snapped the book shut, "but there's just nothing we can do."

Dean's temper had been rising ever since his traitorous memory had pulled up the memory of Bryant's condescending tone. He tried to rein it in, really he did. "So… What happens now?"

Old Dude sighed, "The fact you have saved many people over the years does little to eradicate these black marks, Mr. Winchester. Though we appreciate the good you have done in your life, with your record… I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but the rules are very clear on this topic."

Dean's temper spiked into heretofore uncharted heights. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists. "So, what? Hell?"

Old Dude nodded.

What little control Dean had exerted on himself snapped. He lashed out, first with a right cross that caused something to crunch in Old Dude's nose, "Beep you, you mother beeping, beep-sucking, beep-for-brains!" and then with a sharp uppercut with his left fist.

Old Dude reeled back from his little podium and mumbled something. Dean didn't catch what, exactly, but he also didn't have time to linger on it before he blinked and was suddenly in the midst of real, actual, Hell.

There was fire, smoke, torture, and screaming. Gore and blood and everything he'd ever imagined the place to be. There was something happening just off to his left. Oh, look at that. A fight. It sounded good to him. He waded into the middle, still riding the high of his anger, and before long, there was a ring of bruised and bloodied people surrounding him.

Not long after his anger ebbed, he almost literally stumbled across a man who had been there long enough for his eyes to only contain a hint of form and definition when he wasn't concentrating. "How did you do that?" he asked.

Dean shrugged, "Been fightin' almost as long as I've been alive, dude."

It seemed to open the gates to a conversation. Dean was only a little unnerved that he was having a 'friendly' conversation with an almost-demon. It was from his new friend – Armond or Almond or Albuquerque or whatever, Dean never had been all that good with names – that he learned that the hooks and the grey room were just waiting areas. The almost-demon knew who Dean was, and further knew that by Hell's laws, he wasn't supposed to be there, at least, not as a victim. He told Dean that he pretty much had the freedom to go anywhere or do anything he pleased, because according to Hell's records, he belonged in Heaven, and couldn't be touched because of it.

Dean wasn't sure what to do with the information and so decided to lay low for a while. Just to get the lay of the land, mind.

He still had no way of telling how long he'd been dead – only that it seemed like months – when he found another fight on a day? Night? Didn't matter, no one slept in Hell. It was a long time after his meeting with the almost-demon though. Point is, he was bored and watching demons fight each other over the 'tastiest' souls was slightly more entertaining than watching torture sessions for truly-evil people, but not as hypnotic as the lava-lamp-esque walls of blood. Really, if he ignored what it was made of, the damn walls could snag for-fucking-_evers_ of time from Dean.

The demons didn't fight very well. Dean was bored. These two things combined in such a way that what happened next was almost inevitable.

It was also inevitable that, after his impromptu lessons – hey, he'd always loved training – had gone on for a while, he found himself escorted back to that swanky office and the waiting fat dude.

"I'd say it's good to see you, Dean-o, but I'd be lying," the demon didn't waste any time in coming to the point. "The thing is, we know about your rotten luck with Pete – good job on hitting that bastard, by the way – but you still don't belong here under our bylaws. And we _really_ can't be letting you train and recruit your very own army from our lower levels – that just wouldn't be right, you know? So, we've gotta come to a workable solution for everyone."

"Whacha gonna do?" Dean was honestly curious.

"We're going to send you back. It's not how things are normally done, but I think this would settle matters once and for all. We'll send you back to your life, and from there you earn your place either here or in Heaven the good old-fashioned way. Sound good to you?"

Dean's eyes bugged out, though he would never in a million years admit it. "What's the catch?"

The demon shook his head, "No catch, sonny. You don't belong here because of the nature of the deal you made, and obviously Heaven's got some issue or another with you. Like I said, you go home, and the lower levels regain their delicate balance of chaos and we're all happy."

Before Dean could reply, the demon tossed a paperclip at him, which he caught out of pure reflex.

Half a heartbeat later, Dean was lying on the floor of that house he'd last seen all those months and months and months ago, Sam holding his head in his lap, his eyes screwed tightly shut. Without moving, Dean could sense Bobby somewhere close by. With a gasp, Dean sat up and began to frantically pat himself down. There were no wounds. He breathed a sigh of relief that was abruptly cut off as Sammy grabbed him in a crushing bear hug.

"Sam. Can't. Breathe."

Sam let go and looked at his brother, "Is it really you, Dean?"

Dean didn't have time to answer before there was the sound of three quick footsteps and something cold and wet dumped on his head. Dean merely looked up. "Good to see you, too, Bobby."

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"Could ask you the same thing – last I knew you were about to be royally fucked by Lilith."

Sam quickly explained how he was apparently immune to Lilith's powers. "Your turn. How come you're not still dead?"

Dean launched into his tale, which had, according to the clock on the fireplace, taken place within a scant ten minutes. He finished up the telling in twice the amount of time he was gone. But yeah, time in Hell was subjective.

"They just let you go?" Sam couldn't seem to wrap his geek-boy brain around the concept.

"What can I say, Sammy?" Dean smirked, "Heaven doesn't want me, and Hell's afraid I'll take over."

_Finite Incantatem_

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**A/N2:** Remember to let me know what you think by dropping me a review.


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